


Cattywampus

by metrophobic



Category: South Park
Genre: Coming of Age, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Happy Ending, Healing, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Legal Guardianship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Self-Discovery, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-09-16 05:33:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16947957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metrophobic/pseuds/metrophobic
Summary: At the age of 15, Tweek arrives home from school one day to discover the grisly murder-suicide of his father and mother, respectively. The matter of his legal guardianship falls not to the family where he really belongs, but to Richard's older sister... from Mississippi.The Tuckers are unwilling to let him go without a fight, but so is she. And regardless of where Tweek stays, there's still going to be a long road ahead of him...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After writing [this bit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14771798) for the Drabble Bomb several months ago, which takes place a decade after the event in question, I really wanted to write the premise behind it as a full-fledged story. So I've been gradually working at this between my other stuff, and now that I have the first few chapters done I decided to start posting it.
> 
> For once I'm actually writing a story that doesn't contain smut, has Hell frozen over? But they are 15 year old baby boys in wuv so there will be a lot of grossness in that regard.
> 
> Many thanks to Flynntervention for betaing/proofing the first chapter!

It all came in a blur, a series of disjointed scenes, like he was part of the audience. The lights flashed in a colourful staccato and he might as well have been one of the crowd gathered outside. Tweek always was skeptical of the idea of out-of-body experiences, but he could see it like he panned the camera out and away from his own eyes and into the mass consciousness stood outside his front door.

Of course, it was he who found the bodies.

When he’s sitting in the interrogation chair he might as well be looking into the eyes of his own executioner. Instead of a pen, Sergeant Yates holds an axe. The camera: a noose. The wooden arms he’s clutching white-knuckled are the restraints, the pounding headache at his temples and the ringing in his ears; they’ll be the vice that ultimately holds him in place when the inevitable shocks tear through his body.

( _“911, what’s the emergency?”_

_“My—“ and his voice is like dry leaves, crackled and parched, “—my parents.”_

_“What? I can’t hear you, you’ll have to speak up.”_

_“My parents are dead.”_ )

He’s asking something, the nice policeman. The room is cold. Tweek’s thoughts right now are about the Soft Room. Kenny told him about it a few years ago. Is this the Soft Room? But there aren’t any clowns or stupid jokes. Just a wooden, unfeeling face and the scratch of a pen.

“Did you hear me?” Yates leans forward to stare him down, and Tweek shrinks back in his seat. As if he can smell the fear on him, his jailer sighs and sits up straighter in his chair. He rubs a meaty hand across his forehead. “Okay,” he says, voice tense. “Just take a deep breath—”

 _(I want_ )

“—and tell me where you were.”

( _Mom._ )

The little thought is deliriously ironic. A little huff of breath escapes his nose, and Tweek sniffles, then tips his head forward. His shoulders quake.

“What did you say?”

“I—” A short, rough sound bursts from his throat: laughter. He’s laughing. “—I want my _Mom._ ”

A loud burst, like a gunshot. Tweek jolts in his seat with a sharp cry. But it was only the nice policeman and all he did was slam his fist against the table, patience frayed like the silvery hairs in his thick, ginger moustache.

“Your Mom’s _dead!_ ”

“I don’t think we’re gonna get anything out of him,” his colleague cuts in. “Not right now.”

“ _Fine._ ” Yates is on his feet. “We’re just wasting our time with these petty questions.”

 _Murderer._  With the word already branded on his skin, it might as well be written in a scandalous neon red. The word flashes through his mind over and over like the blinking sign of a gentleman’s club. _Murderer. Murderer. Murderer._

 _Murderer,_ when they remove him from the room and he can do nothing but stand there, shivering, and the voices around him tumble out in busy wordless mumbles like he’s underwater.

 _Murderer,_ when they don’t do it like they always do on TV: when the victim’s standing behind glass and they line up in a neat row. _It’s all right,_ they always say while tears run down the woman’s pinkened nose. _They can’t see you._ But there will be no line-up, because he’s already in line, by himself.

“You know,” Yates remarks, “I always _liked_ your coffee.”

 _Murderer,_ when they lead him out to the front and oh god, he’s going to be locked up behind bars. He’s going to sit in due process limbo until the day he finally stands trial and all for something he didn’t do. It was the wrong place at the wrong time. He’s going to—

“Tweek!”

His face. Oh god, his face. His face was among them when they were all gathered to watch them lead Tweek out in handcuffs, and the shock was there, he saw it on him too. _Murderer._

( _“What is your location?”_

_“20288 Cherry Hill Lane.”_

_“We’ll send someone now. Do you have any more information? What do you mean, they’re dead?”_

_“They’re dead. They’re lying in their own blood, and they’re dead.”_

_“Is there anyone else in the house with you? Are you in danger?”_

_“No. She’s holding a gun.”_

_“Who’s holding a gun? ...Sir? Sir, are you all right?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Who’s holding a gun?”_ )

“I didn’t do it,” Tweek finally cries out. “God damn it, I didn’t do it!”

“I know. I know you didn’t. They said—”

“You looked at me, and you, _you_ saw a killer. I _saw_ you!”

Craig falls silent, lips parted, brow furrowed. He doesn’t know what to say. It’s like he was caught doing something he shouldn’t, _seeing_ something he shouldn’t.

“That’s enough.”

Tweek realizes then he’s changed hands. The officer who holds him now: he’s gruff, not as overbearing as Yates, but he’s just as stony, just as unsympathetic. They’re always unsympathetic, and the nice policeman is a myth.

“What do you _mean,_ that’s enough?” She’s there with him—Craig’s mother. It’s just the two of them. And even if Craig can no longer meet Tweek’s eyes, she’s the one who steps forward, a cross look on her face. “You had no grounds to arrest him in the first place. We all know what happened.”

“That information’s on a need-to-know basis, ma’am.”

“Oh, for crying out loud.”

“All right.” He’s looking at Tweek though, so it must be to address him instead. “Your aunt’s on the way, kid.”

“What?” Tweek’s hands are shaking. The room spins around him so quick he stumbles while standing still. Craig automatically moves to catch him, but the guard intervenes.

“No touching.”

“I don’t have an aunt,” Tweek manages to whisper. He certainly can’t recall ever hearing about one. His parents kept to themselves, never interacted with extended family beyond the occasional phone call to his grandmother; the one on his mother’s side. The others died when he was too little to remember them.

“Jolene Crawford. Jackson, Mississippi. That’s your next legal guardian.”

“ _What!_ ” This time, Craig blurts it out. Laura’s face falls, and she squeezes her son’s shoulder.

“She won’t be getting here tonight,” she says, her voice tight.

“Nope, probably not,” is the reply. “Come on, kid, let’s go.”

“Where are you taking him?”

“‘Til she gets here, he’s a ward of the state.”

“We came here in the first place to pick him up.” Laura’s clearly not backing down on this, and hope sparks to life like a little candle lit right there in his chest. “He can come with us, at least until…”

“No can do. Sorry, ma’am, it’s the law.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Her voice rises. “He’s fifteen, it’s not like he’s too young to understand what’s going on.”

“It’s the law.”

As he’s ushered out, Tweek stumbles forward, dazed, knowing in the back of his mind he’s never going to see Craig or this town again. But for some reason it won’t connect with the rest of him.

Laura, however, won’t let him go without a fight. She’s hurrying after them; Tweek can hear her, even as he keeps his eyes forward. “Oh! Oh, _fuck_ the law!” They’re still moving. “He’s been through enough today, and tomorrow’s going to be even worse.”

When there’s still no answer, she barrels forward and blocks their path entirely. “I know you’re a human being, Murphy, so drop that goddamn book and show some compassion for once. For _once_ in your career. It’s just one night. Let him go with the people who love him. _Please._ ”

“Fine.” Surprisingly, Murphy releases his hold. He shakes his head and turns back toward the station. “Fine. But we’re checking up tomorrow, and if his guardian hasn’t come by to collect him, he’s coming back with us.”

“Oh, thank god,” Laura says. “Thank you, Murphy. Thank you so much.” Her arms are suddenly around Tweek, and all he can think is  _no, no no no_ but not with her. Not with her son.

Just, _no._

Craig holds his hand on the drive to their house, thumb rubbing back and forth over his knuckles. Every part of Tweek feels heavy, so impossibly heavy, like he’s the one who’s been filled with lead. His eyes are bone-dry and with everything they pass by he can only think, _never again. Tomorrow, never again._ That mountain range in the background, _never again,_ and the gun shop and the school and stupid, stupid fucking Raisins, _never again,_ and that dog on the street he sometimes feeds, _never again._

None of them know what to say. Even Laura is silent.

Somewhere in all the mayhem, they’d managed to get Tweek’s backpack and it’s waiting for him in the trunk; but what about the rest of his things? They’re all in that house, and that house is sealed behind yellow tape. It’s evidence, untouchable after their bodies were taken away like it is on TV, zipped up in bags like lumps of meat. Corpses. They were corpses; there were corpses in that house and everything Tweek owns, everything he knows, it’s tainted now, it’s all a fucking biohazard—and he’ll die too if he lays his hands on any of it.

Motionless he sits on the couch in their living room while the three of them argue upstairs. It’s obvious they’re trying to keep him from hearing.

“ _…_ just let them, Thomas. For Christ’s sake _…_ ”

“ _…_ just not a good idea _…_ ”

“ _…_ not going to _do anything,_ he’s a _mess…_ ”

_Son? Did you drop something?_

“Fine.” Craig’s voice becomes clearer when he reaches the stairs, and he continues while he stomps down them. “I just won’t sleep at all. Fuck it.”

No sooner than when he plants his ass next to Tweek on the couch does Laura follow. Once she’s descended that final step she sighs deeply. “Okay, you can sleep together on the pull-out. That’s the best I could negotiate.”

“Good,” Craig replies, flatly. “Who knows what kind of crazy, wild sex we would have gotten up to in the privacy of my bedroom.” They haven’t even done anything before, not beyond kissing and light touching above the waist, sometimes after getting their shirts off. Those were the moments when they could press close and Tweek always smelled his skin, his deodorant, his shampoo, and never again.

_Never again._

“All right, stop it.” Laura’s gaze cuts in Tweek’s direction, which means it’s more for his own sake than anyone else’s sensibilities. “Are you hungry, sweetie?”

Tweek shakes his head.

“Have you eaten at all today?”

His stomach squeezes painfully. He can’t remember. He _must_ have. He fled the house before finishing breakfast because he was already going to be late, but—

“He had lunch.”

Laura’s already heading for the kitchen once Craig supplies the answer in Tweek’s stead. “That was at least ten hours ago. Craig, come help me.”

“He said he’s not hungry.”

“Just get in here.” Her voice carries that stern edge, but Tweek’s used to it. It’s how they show affection. Craig speaks to him like that sometimes too. Beside him, Craig sighs and slides off the couch, and his big bare feet plod across the lacquered floorboards.

He’s gone.

Everyone’s gone. They’re speaking in the kitchen, and he recognizes the tones of their voices, but he can’t make out the words. Not this time.

Craig’s father comes downstairs a moment later. “All right, kiddo,” he says with a wave of his hand. Those large, thick hands that could easily snap Tweek’s thin wrists like twigs; possibly even Craig’s, too, yet Thomas Tucker never lifted a finger on anyone who mattered. Tweek wordlessly rises to his feet and watches him pull apart the couch and arrange the bed. They never really talked much, but Laura always reassured him that he’s loved, her husband is just stubborn.

Craig’s stubborn too. He understands.

“We’re not letting you go,” Craig murmurs against his shoulder, when they’re in bed almost an hour later and Tweek’s begrudgingly taken a few swallows of tomato soup. _You have to get_ **_something_ ** _in you, baby,_ Laura urged him. _Please try, for us?_

Tweek closes his eyes. He can tell Craig expects him to ask, _what were you talking about in there?_ but he doesn’t; he doesn’t want to know. It’s not a fervent denial. He can’t process the concept of _want_ right now. He can’t process the yearning for answers when he’s not sure what the questions are. Craig’s arm, which is slung over his chest, tightens. His face is pressed up against Tweek’s arm and he sniffles into the sleeve of his own pajama shirt hanging loosely off Tweek’s shoulders.

“Don’t cry,” Tweek whispers. It’s the first thing he’s said since his outburst at the police station. He turns his head and buries his face into Craig’s hair. It’s soft and smells like _Head and Shoulders,_ like it always does. “Don’t cry. It’s gonna be okay.”

“God damn it.” Craig’s voice is thick. “Shut up.” He scrubs a hand over his eyes and lifts his head, and it’s hard to see his face in the dark, but he finds Tweek’s lips and kisses them anyway. Once, twice. The second time, Tweek remembers he’s supposed to kiss back. He can actually feel a palpable tension melt away from Craig’s body, like he was afraid Tweek had stopped being human and nothing would reach him anymore. He flops back down beside him with a little affectionate grumble and hugs him like a teddy bear, pulling Tweek against his chest.

“We’re keeping you,” Craig reiterates. “I’m not just saying that. Mom is gonna fight for you and Dad will, too.”

“How?” Tweek’s voice scrapes against his throat and cracks the word apart. He clears his throat and tries again. “How?”

“She didn’t really have an explanation for me, but she promised that they knew what they were doing. Kyle Broflovski’s dad is a lawyer. She mentioned that, at least.”

 _It’s the law._ Tweek squeezes his eyes shut. Does the law even matter when murder’s involved?

“I’ll fight, too,” Craig adds. “That part should be obvious.”

“Okay,” Tweek whispers. He doesn’t want to talk about this, doesn’t want to think anymore. He curls up against Craig’s warm body.

“You’re so calm about this,” Craig says quietly. “Really calm. It scares me.”

Tweek clutches fistfuls of Craig’s t-shirt when he says that, yet doesn’t respond any further.

 

* * *

 

She comes for him at around one o’clock in the afternoon. Craig was allowed to stay home from school, and they’re sitting together on the couch folded back into itself, television bright and playing some stupid show Tweek doesn’t follow. The glare from the screen hurts his tired eyes and Craig’s holding his hand. On two separate occasions their eyes meet and Craig brings their joined hands up and softly kisses Tweek’s knuckles. The first time, it’s fleeting, and then he kisses them one by one, slowly. Tweek hears the slam of a car door and he wonders if that’s why.

Tweek flinches at the rap on their door, and Craig’s hand tightens around his. The doorbell sounds immediately afterward. In a flash Laura’s down the stairs, and she motions for the two boys to stay. Tweek’s stomach painfully lurches at the realization that once he lets go of Craig’s hand, that’ll be it, he’ll never hold it again.

“Hi, Jolene?”

“Oh, _hello!_ You must be Mrs. Tucker. It’s so lovely to meet you.” His aunt’s tone is both pleasant and overbearing at once. A Southern accent tinges her voice, though it’s not as prominent as Tweek expected.

“Like the song? I love it!” A strained laugh.

“Yes, yes, it sure is!” More polite laughter.

“Please, come right in.”

“I can’t stay long, sweetie. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.” Heeled shoes tap across the floor and then there’s his aunt right there in the living room. She’s middle-aged, curly brown hair streaked with grey and pulled into a bun.

She has his father’s eyes.

“Tweek, darling!”

Tweek is frozen. Her lips are so bright. _No,_ he wants to cry. He can’t imagine being trapped in a car with this woman, let alone _living_ with her. Jolene’s eyes flick toward Tweek and Craig’s joined hands before her smile widens.

“Hi,” Craig says instead, like he’s speaking for them both.

“Oh, bless your heart, honey. You must be Tweek’s friend I’ve heard so much about.”

Bile rises in Tweek’s throat. She knows they aren’t just friends.

“Are you all packed and ready, sweetheart?”

“That’s…” Laura laughs like she’s trying to keep it lighthearted. “Look, you’ve come such a long way, can I get you a drink? Why don’t you sit for a moment? I can make you tea, if you’d like.”

“Bless your heart, sweetie.” Jolene’s voice trails off as she follows Laura into the dining room. “I would love a cup of tea.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Craig whispers. “I told you.” Tweek leans against him and shuts his eyes. He can hear portions of their conversation, though it’s clear they’re trying to keep it hush-hush. There was a lot they tried to protect him from since his arrival last night and it’s barely worked.

“We’ve been discussing it, my husband and I. Tweek’s life is in this town. After what happened, I don’t think it would be a good idea to uproot him like this.”

“Oh, darling.” Tweek can almost hear the sickly-sweet smile around Jolene’s words. “I know it might seem like we’re tearing him away from what he knows, but a clean break is exactly what’s best for him. He needs to make a fresh start.”

“In an entirely new place, in a new…” He can’t understand what Laura says next. Climate? “He won’t know anyone. All of his friends are here, his loved ones.”

There’s a brief pause. Tweek imagines Jolene daintily sipping her tea. “This town, it just isn’t the best…” and she drops her voice slightly, so Tweek can’t hear until, “He’s still young, there’s still a chance for him to have a good life.”

“I understand that.” Laura’s voice remains polite, but Tweek can hear it, that edge beginning to creep in. She’s getting tense. “I really, truly do. He deserves a good life, you’re right. And that’s why I think it’s best if he remains here in South Park.”

“Oh, honey.” Jolene tuts, and for a second Tweek thinks she’s going to say _bless your heart_ again. Instead she prattles on, “you’re such a dear. But he belongs with family.”

“Oh, we are family. My son absolutely adores him. He’s always had a place here with us, and I think he needs to be surrounded by familiar things. He needs to heal, and he can only do that if he’s in a place filled with love and support.”

“Dear, I know you must care about him very much, but blood is thicker than water. Family, _real_ family, must always come first. What makes you think we won’t give him all the love and support he deserves? That’s all this is about, after all. What’s best for him.”

“With all due respect, Jolene,” Laura says, “you barely know him. My son grew up with him, they’ve known each other since kindergarten, and this is a very close-knit town. Everyone knows each other, supports each other. In a way, most of us here _are_ like extended family.”

“And that’s precisely why he needs to get away.” A pause. “You know the saying, ‘familiarity breeds contempt’, don’t you, dear? Talk will circulate, it will follow him like a shadow, this tragedy that’s happened. He won’t be able to escape it. He needs to _breathe,_ darling.” Jolene’s voice drops again, but Tweek hears the words, _and don’t you think;_ something-something-something, _with all this;_ another whisper, then:  _homosexual lifestyle._

“There’s nothing wrong with him.” In spite of the steel, there’s no shock or surprise in Laura’s voice, like she’s been waiting all along for whatever Jolene conveyed. “He loves him very much. We all do. And we support them.”

“They’re just so _young,_ sweetie.” A little _clink_ of the teacup. “These certainly weren’t things _we_ learned at that age. It wasn’t even until Richard moved to this town that his head got filled with all that liberal nonsense.”

“Believe it or not,” Laura says, “this was actually a conservative town up until a few years ago. My husband even still considers himself one. We just happen to know that love and tolerance are important values to have, too.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Jolene lets out a rather condescending little chuckle. “Let’s not get all tied up in politics, shall we?”

“Well, you _did_ imply there was something wrong with my son, who you’ve known for a grand total of thirty seconds.”

“Oh, dear. I didn’t mean to offend you, darling. I’m sure your son is very sweet.”

“How present have you been in Tweek’s life before now?” Tweek can feel the tension steep right beneath his own skin when Laura interrogates his aunt. “He didn’t even know you existed until last night.”

“He’s in a state of shock. You can’t possibly expect the poor dear to behave rationally at a time like this. Of course we’ve been in his life!”

Has she? ‘We’? She must be married, he must have an uncle. Tweek finds himself pawing through his memory banks in a vain effort to remember. Maybe his brains really have become scrambled; he can’t seem to hold onto anything that happened. It still feels like a movie, like a strange dream.

He must have flinched or tensed up or something, because Craig’s kissing him tenderly behind the ear, and his hand’s still tight and warm.

“I love you,” he whispers into Tweek’s hair. Normally, this is when Tweek’s heart swells, when light glimmers everywhere under his skin and he feels like he could explode. But it evokes nothing in him now, and when he realizes that he feels sick to his stomach all over again. Is he so fucked up now that The Tragedy—as he heard this bloodline stranger refer to it—did it make him not even love Craig anymore?

 _It’s not like he’s too young to understand what’s going on,_ he remembers Laura saying last night, to the policeman. But she’s wrong. She must be.

“You all right, honey?” Craig’s voice interrupts his thoughts.

“I’m listening,” Tweek whispers back.

“I can’t hear anything. Not over the TV.”

“I can,” hisses Tweek, and waves his free hand. “ _Shh._ ”

“I don’t know what you’re possibly thinking,” Laura’s saying when he tunes back in, and then she laughs in that awkward manner. “They’re _fifteen._ ”

Jolene laughs too. “Oh, honey, you know how teenage boys are.”

“Yes, I do,” Laura says, with that same forced lightheartedness from before. “And that’s why we set the same boundaries for them that we would our daughter.”

“What the fuck,” Craig grumbles under his breath. His fingers twitch against their joined hands. Both of their palms are getting sweaty from the shared heat, but still, _still,_ they don’t pull away. Because they both know that letting go means losing the other forever.

“Well, I do think it’s time we got on the road.” There’s the creak of a chair. “Thank you very much for your hospitality, Mrs. Tucker.”

“Oh, please,” Laura says cheerfully. “Call me Laura.”

“Thank you, Miss Laura.”

“He’s not going with you.”

Jolene is halfway toward the living room when Laura drops that bomb, and Tweek watches her visibly halt in her tracks. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m sorry if I didn’t make myself clear.” Laura rests one hand against the banister of the staircase. “Tweek’s going to stay here with us. I know you came all this way, but—”

“Darling—”

“I _know you came all this way,_ ” Laura raises her voice, talking over her, “but it’s better for him if he stays _here._ ”

“Bless your heart, dear. I know you don’t want to see him go. But I _am_ his legal guardian.” Jolene merely tuts at her, and she approaches them in the living room. “Ready, honey?” She doesn’t look in Craig’s direction, not once, and Craig’s hand tenses in his.

“Jolene.” Laura trails in after her. “I don’t think you heard me.”

Nausea rises up in Tweek’s belly, and he’s dimly aware of how he’s trembling, as the reality of leaving this house and not looking back truly settles upon him. His head feels light. _Craig, I do love you,_ he realizes, remembers, with a sudden raw desperation. _Don’t let go._ **_Please don’t let go._ **

“I think you need to calm down, Miss Laura,” Jolene says. “Look at him, he’s white as a sheet. Do you really want to add more stress on top of what he’s already been dealing with?”

“Tweek, baby, you don’t want to go, do you? You want to stay here.”

His eyes are wide, and he can’t speak, but he nods, or at least he thinks he does, he can’t tell.

“This is what I was talking about,” Jolene says. “You aren’t even asking him what he wants, you’re telling him! Tweek, dear, get your things. It’s time to go.”

“He doesn’t _wanna_  go with you, bitch!” Now Craig’s joining the fray. Tweek’s chest hurts, so much, right in the center. He’s having a heart attack, he must be. That’s what happens: your chest crushes in on itself, and you can’t _breathe_ , it’s like there’s a weight compacting you there. This time, it’s not just a panic attack. It’s real, and he’s dying.

“I beg your _pardon,_ young man?” Jolene sounds positively aghast.

Laura reprimands him with a sharp, “ _Craig,_ ” but he ignores it.

“Just leave him alone. _You’re_ the one who’s upsetting him. You’re scaring him and he belongs _here,_ with us!”

“Craig, _stop it._ ” Laura’s waving her hands. “I’ve got this under control—”

“I _heard_ you in there!” Tweek shrinks back against the couch when Craig’s voice spirals louder. It never used to scare him like this. “You just wanna take him away from us because you’re a big fat homophobe. Get the fuck out of our house, ya old bitch!”

Laura wedges herself in between them. “He… he doesn’t mean it, look, he’s just upset, but this is why—”

“Unbelievable.” Jolene’s demeanour has changed, too. “This is how you raise your children, like _animals?_ I would _never_ let my son talk to _anyone_ like that, let alone his elder!”

“And we don’t _either!_ ” is Laura’s retort.

“I don’t give a fuck anyway,” Craig snaps. “You’re a dried up old cunt and—”

“ _Go to your room!_ ” Laura shouts. “Right _now!_ ”

“Come on, Tweek,” Craig says, tugging on Tweek’s hand. But he’s frozen, he doesn’t know what to do, _can_ he go with him? He can’t, he’s not allowed, and they—

“He’s not going _upstairs_ with you, you little demon!” Jolene is clearly flabbergasted by the suggestion. “We’re _leaving!_ ”

“Don’t you _dare_ talk to my son like that.”

“Tweek, _come on._ ”

“I’m his legal guardian, he’s coming with _me!_ ”

“Tweek, _let’s go!_ ”

“ _Shut the fuck up!_ ”

They do.

Craig, startled, drops his hand. The air still rings with the echo of Tweek’s scream when he sinks to the floor, and the dam bursts, it explodes inside him, and he’s crying harder than he can remember in his life, face pressed into his hands.

“I’m sorry.” It’s Craig. He drops to his knees beside him and whispers to him again, _I’m sorry._ _Come here._ Tweek can’t do anything but bury his face into Craig’s chest and weep.

“God damn it.” Laura sounds like she’s in tears, too.

“I’m going to call the police,” Jolene says. “This is abuse. Look what you’re doing to this poor boy. He’s been _traumatized,_ and all you can think about is yourselves.”

“No.” Laura sighs like she’s conceding defeat. “Don’t do that. I’m sorry.” At that, Craig holds Tweek tighter against him. “Will you at least give us a moment to say goodbye? Please?”

“I don’t know if I should leave you alone with him for another second.” Jolene’s voice is cold. “You are toxic, toxic people.”

“Craig didn’t mean what he said,” Laura insists. “We’re all incredibly shaken by what happened. Just give us a minute so he can calm down, and then you can go. Look, here’s his backpack, you can take it out to the car. I promise we’ll be right out.”

It sounds like she’s leaving the room, and then Laura’s voice is at his other ear, and more warmth surrounds him. “Oh, baby,” she says softly. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, honey.” Tweek still can’t do anything but cry, his sobs muffled into Craig’s chest. The candle of hope Craig and his mother lit inside him, it’s completely snuffed out. He’s leaving, he’s leaving forever, he’s leaving the love of his life and his rock, his _family,_ the family that was his all along. She said he needed to get away, to breathe, but he can’t, and he won’t be able to, ever again.

“It’s going to be alright, Tweek.” Craig’s voice is a little bit thicker, and he sniffles after he says it, but he’s otherwise calm and controlled. He’s trying to be strong for him and the notion sends Tweek into another round of hard sobs because if he has to be strong, it means this is for real, and there’s nothing anyone can do for him now. They’ve given up.

They’re surrendering him.

“You won’t be there long at all.” Laura’s words are quiet and careful, like it’s a secret. “We’re going to fight for you. We love you, so, so much.”

“We’ll talk, there’s still Facebook and stuff, we can talk every single day. And we can FaceTime too,” adds Craig.

_You’re just saying that._

_You’ll forget me,_ is what runs through Tweek’s mind. _You’ll leave me. I’m disappearing and you’ll get used to living without me, and then you’ll forget me._ But he can’t say it, he can’t even reach the point of babbling the way it happens on TV, because he’s crying too hard.

_You’re just saying that._

“It’s time to go, dear.” Jolene’s voice floats from the doorway. Laura stands up but Craig still holds on tight, and Tweek can feel his face pressed into his hair; tiny, hurried kisses all over the top of his head. “Tweek, come on,” Jolene says, a little more firmly.

“Can you just…” Laura exhales. “He’s coming, just…”

“It’s okay,” Craig whispers, rocking them back and forth, but he sounds desperate. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I won’t leave you. I love you. I _love_ you.” He lets go, then, and the warm darkness is gone, the softness of his shirt and the smell of him is gone, and it’s bright again. It’s bright again, and it hurts, and he’s gone. Tweek can’t bring himself to look up, to look at any of them. His head throbs.

 _I have to,_ he thinks. _This is it. This is the end._ Just as he’s hauling himself to his knees, he whirls around and catches Craig’s face in his hands. It’s one quick peck on the lips, but Craig’s fingers are in his hair and it brings a fresh wave of tears to his swollen eyes. _Fuck it,_ Tweek convinces himself. _Fuck it._ His hands press against Craig’s jaw and he kisses him, again, and he’s deepening it, and Craig is, too, and it’s passionate and breathless and at least this, he can have this, he’ll take it with him.

“Okay, guys.” Laura’s gentle urge wavers under her tears. “Okay, okay. Let’s go.”

“I love you.” It’s the only thing left in Tweek’s lungs, and then he’s pulling Craig into a hug that squeezes the last of his strength away. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Craig chokes out. “I love you so much.”

They linger, and then Laura’s hand is on Tweek’s shoulder, gently tugging him. “I know, baby.” Her tone is a mournful one. “I know.”

Tweek throws his arms around her, too, and then he stumbles past Jolene and outside. He doesn’t want to look at her face, because then she’ll be real. The only thing keeping him alive is the idea he still might wake up. When he does look again, it’s through the window; he can see Craig and Laura watching him from the doorway, and by the time the car rolls away down the road and their forms shrink away into the horizon, he’s sobbing like a little kid all over again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the slow update! What I originally had for Chapter 2 I decided I wanted to split into chapters 2 and 3, and expand accordingly, which involved a lot of rewriting. Getting sick on and off doesn't help either. (Ugh, winter.)
> 
> Thanks everyone for the lovely comments and kudos!

As Tweek wears himself down into silence, he curls up tight against the door to observe his world floating away from him through wet and swollen eyes. The sun's beaming down into him right through the glass, sky a bright blue and dusted with wispy clouds. He's taken away in the midst of springtime, and as man-made civilization disappears into fields and hills of rolling green, as mountains loom against the skyline, his heart flips in his chest. His hands grasp and twist the belt slung over his chest. If he tears it off, if he disengages the door, how bad would it be? How many bones will it cost him? He could run away into those hills right now, just him and the open air, the sunlight. The mountains would guard him and she would never find him. No one would ever find him. And when they give up and leave him for dead, he can go home.

Or he can wake up.

None of these happen. A great exhaustion overtakes him and though he releases his hold on the seatbelt, unclicks it and allows it to fall away from his body, Tweek doesn't defy the lock on the door or take his chances on bashing himself into the highway. Instead, he lies down across the backseat, scrunching his legs up beneath him with his nose to the cushion. The soft grey fabric still holds the last remnants of car-smell. He expects to be scolded for all this, but instead, Jolene asks him, "Do you need a blanket, honey?" It's the first his aunt has spoken since they left the house.

"No." His voice is swollen, too.

"You poor thing," she says after a few moments have rolled by. "You've been through so much."

Tweek rubs his eyes, and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie. The shirt's not even his—in fact, none of these clothes are. They're all Craig's and they're all too big for him, but the smell of everything warm and familiar is still there: the worn black cotton with the stupid Stormtrooper face on the front smells like rodents and floral dryer sheets and he is never going to take it off. Tweek breathes that smell in so deep it makes him snort, and the pressure of his sinuses filled with tears makes his head throb. "Where's my backpack?"

"It's in the trunk," replies Jolene. "It's safe."

"Can I get my phone?"

"Oh, we're on the highway, honey. Maybe we'll get it when we stop for dinner in a few hours."

"What am I supposed to do then? Stare off into space?" He didn't mean to speak so rudely, but the threat is very real: without anything to distract himself, he'll end up walking down that roped-off corridor in his mind, the place he isn't supposed to find. The place obscured by red mist and sealed off with yellow-and-black police tape. He curls back up into himself.

"Of course not." Jolene doesn't sound inclined to scold him. "I actually brought something for you, though I was hoping we could chat a little first."

The notion of having an actual conversation is a weight on his tongue, like trying to pronounce a foreign word for the first time. Tweek can practically count on his fingers the number of sentences he uttered out loud today before getting into this very car. At least his final words to Craig were _I love you_ instead of something dumb.

He would give anything to hear Craig say something dumb. Tweek's stomach twists painfully at the thought of him and his eyes water all over again.  _I don't want to,_ is what he'd like to say. But instead, he rasps out, "what?"

"I know you've been through a lot, you poor thing." Her pity makes Tweek's skin crawl, and all he offers up is a noncommittal sound. "I just wanted to tell you there are a lot of great things in store for you. I know it may seem like a large door has closed and barred shut behind you, but there are still many more awaiting you on the path ahead."

Tweek brings up one of his hands and chews on what's left of his thumbnail, dragging in another sniffle. "Okay."

"Just remember no matter what happens, I will be there for you every step of the way. But it won't be just me. You have a special friend who will always hold your hand, who will always walk with you no matter how dark it gets. You know who that is, don't you?"

He's hesitant to answer, but finally ventures after a moment: "Jesus?"

"That's right." His aunt sounds pleased. Though he's facing the back of the seat, Tweek grabs the hood of his shirt with both hands and tugs it over his face as much as he can, as if he could disappear into the cloth right then and there. All he can think about now are those judging whispers about the _homosexual lifestyle_ , how she called Craig a _little demon_.

"I'm gay."

"And you know, that's okay." Jolene's demeanor doesn't change at all, not even after Tweek reminds her of this little fact. "It's perfectly okay, Tweek, because you know what? Jesus loves you anyway, and even if we have a great journey ahead of us, he knows you're worth it." After a rustle of movement, something thumps the armrest between the two front seats. "Here you go, dear. Just a little welcome home present from your uncle and I."

It's an iPad. The box was opened before: there's no adhesive on the edges, corners jutting out from where they were tucked back into place. Tweek opens up the box and lifts the device from its cradle, balancing it carefully between his hands. The iPad's fitted with a protective shell and a screen protector, and he brushes his fingertips over the thin plastic cover.

"Your Uncle Roy's already messed around with it," Jolene continues. "I'm not good with technology, but he downloaded the apps and games he thought you might like."

Tweek doesn't remember an Uncle Roy. "Does it," and he clears his throat, "does it have, um, 4G?"

"I'm not sure what that is, sweetie."

"It's cellular data. It... it makes it like a phone." As he speaks, he flips over the box in search of information. Tweek's heart sinks when he discovers the iPad is Wi-Fi only, and he immediately feels like a spoiled, ungrateful piece of shit.

"It's not a phone, honey," says Jolene. "It's the iPad."

"I-I know," Tweek answers her. "Nevermind. Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear," Jolene replies. "You're such a sweet boy. You deserve nice things."

Tweek messes around with the device, fingertips tapping along the home screen as he discovers what apps his uncle installed. It's loaded, she wasn't lying, though the streaming apps are useless with no data connection available to him. Poking around at _Candy Crush_ is a vaguely nice distraction, yet it does nothing to soften the ball of lead in his chest. He sniffles again, though his eyes are sticky and he has no tears left in him. "Aunt Jolene?" he ventures, after twenty minutes or so.

"Yes?"

"Can I borrow your phone?"

"What do you need it for?"

"I just... I want to let Craig know how I'm doing. Just for a minute." Saying his name aloud is enough to bring back the blues, the ones that remain dark and untouched by any sky around them. A lump forms in the back of Tweek's throat.

"I need to use the phone for the GPS, hon."

"Just a quick text, then? Please?"

"I don't think I have any of their numbers in my phone, honey."

"I remember his number." When she doesn't respond, he repeats, "Aunt... Aunt Jolene? I know his number."

"I'm sorry, hon," she finally says. "It's just not a good idea."

"Why?"

In the rearview mirror he catches a glimpse of Jolene pressing her lips together. "I think we should talk about this later."

Tweek sinks back into his seat and closes his eyes. It doesn't work: the tears are already falling again. When did he become so weak like this? He's cried more today than he has in the past few years. "I..." He grits his teeth. "I think we should talk about it now."

"Oh, sweetie," Jolene speaks to him as tender as if he were an infant. "Please don't cry. You know your Uncle and I only want what's best for you."

He wants to shout, wants to scream, wants to rip off his seatbelt and jump right out on the highway; the urge is back and it overwhelms him. But Tweek does none of these things, only watches the bright colours on his iPad screen blur through his tears. "Why? Why do you hate him so much?"

"Hate?" Jolene blinks. "I don't hate anyone, sweetie. The Lord doesn't want us to hate, he wants us to love, and forgive."

"You yelled at him!"

"I should not have lost my temper, you're right. I'm awful sorry you had to see it."

Tweek doesn't know what to say to that, because he doesn't forgive her. He won't, won't ever, and so he simply wipes his nose on the back of his sleeve.

"I know you're a sweet, special boy with a lot of potential," Jolene says after another moment. "You've just been very misguided. It's that awful town you were brought up in."

Awful town. His hometown is—was?—a 'cesspool of crazy bullshit', as Craig liked to call it. But it's still his _home,_ and hearing this observation from extended family leaves Tweek squirming uncomfortably in his seat. "What do you mean?"

"They aren't like where we come from," replies Jolene, "and truth be told, all of us were afraid something like this would happen, when..." She trails off with a click of her tongue.

"When what?" All he gets is a sigh for his efforts, so he repeats: "when what?"

"Well," Jolene answers through another sigh, "it just wasn't a very good environment for you. You'll like Jackson a lot. It's bigger, and there are more opportunities, more places where you can grow and flourish."

Tweek swallows against the raw ache in his throat. "The... the Tuckers, they were..." Helping him to flourish? To grow? They were supposed to be his home, weren't they? Tweek would never be able to set foot in the place beyond them again.

"I'm concerned for your welfare when it comes to that family, honey," Jolene says gently, once he's trailed off into nothing. "I don't think they're a good influence on you at all."

"But they go to church! They go every Sunday."

"Do they?" Jolene seems surprised by this new bit of information. Tweek grabs that opening.

"Yes! They're Christian too, and they're good people! So please, just for a second?"

"Listen, I just don't want that boy to have my number on his phone, alright, sweetie?" Jolene glances at him through the rearview. "It only takes one bad apple to spoil the bunch. We'll talk about this later."

Tweek's hands bunch into fists until his nails dig in. It's a welcomed sting. "His... his name is Craig. And he's my _boyfriend._ "

"Oh, dear." Jolene sighs.

 

* * *

 

Something clatters against the side of the car.

Tweek jolts himself into consciousness and nearly ping-pongs across the seat, but a quick glance out the window reveals a row of pumps and little LCD screens with block letters and numbers. They've stopped for gas, and it's growing dark outside: the sky's lit up in gold, orange and indigo and Tweek can still see the clouds stretching along the horizon, silhouetted with the last vestiges of the day's sunlight. He rubs his eyes and yawns. He doesn't recall falling asleep, but Jolene sticks her head in and says, "rise and shine, sleepyhead" and laughs like this is something clever, and he awkwardly smiles back. Stretching his legs does sound like a good idea.

It's when he's out of the car that Tweek remembers. Poking his fingers out of the damp and chewed sleeve of his hooded sweatshirt, he drums them on the closed lid of the trunk and stares at his aunt while she fills up the gas tank.

"You're fidgeting an awful lot, dear," she remarks. "Do you need to use the restroom?"

"I—I do, but, _ngh._ " He tugs at the edge of his hood, which currently hangs down between his shoulders. "Can I get my bag?"

"Let's eat first, okay?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to get something in you, darlin'." Jolene jabs at his ribs but Tweek sucks in his belly the second her fingers make contact. "You're so _skinny._ "

She's stalling. She must be stalling. She took his phone; of course she took his phone. She took it away because she doesn't trust That Family and she doesn't trust Craig. They're not even to her house yet and she's already trying to keep them apart. The backpack must be there, it's got to be there, isn't it? Didn't Laura hand off his bag when she was the one stalling? The phone, if Jolene took it, must be hidden in the glove box or one of the other compartments. It could be in her purse. Or she could have thrown it away. She could have tossed it there in the garbage or left it in the driveway and ran right over—

"Just us two, please."

He's chewing on the string of his hoodie, Tweek realizes as they're led to a booth in the corner, and promptly tugs it out of his mouth.

"That hamburger looks _awfully good..._ " Jolene drags the words out like she's coaxing a small child. Tweek is no vegetarian, but he can smell the greasy animal flesh like it's right in front of him, and bile rises in the back of his throat. In the end, he settles for soup. You can't go wrong with soup. "I was thinking we'd get a hotel for the night," Jolene says once they place their orders. "It's been a very long day, and aren't you tired of lying on that back seat?"

"Yeah," Tweek admits.

"Yeah," she echoes, and reaches out to pat his arm. This time, Tweek doesn't pull away. "I know there's a lot weighing you down. We're out of the darkness now, but your soul still needs a proper rest."

Something about the way she says _soul_ causes a little flip in Tweek's stomach. He can't think of anything to say, so he offers up a nod and takes a sip from his water glass.

"And you know when I say that, I don't just mean sleep, right?"

 _Here we go again._ Tweek fidgets with the waistband of his hoodie under the table, twisting the coarse fabric in his hands. "Uh-huh."

"I know, I know. More God talk. And you're probably thinking, 'I've been through so much _bullcrap_ already, now I'm getting Jesus shoved down my throat, too? Can't she just _hold on?_ '" Before Tweek can answer, she continues, "But I'm not telling you these things because I want to add more weight on your shoulders. In fact, this is the perfect time for you to place yourself in God's hands. He sees how badly you're hurting, and he wants to take away your pain."

"But I don't know anything about God or the Bible!" It's a half-truth: he's accompanied the Tuckers to church on more than one occasion. But he _already_ has someone to ease his pain. Someone here, down on Earth, someone 100% tangible. Someone whom he can put his faith into and know without a doubt he's real, no supernatural belief required. Tweek drops his gaze to the table when his vision blurs.

Of course, his ignorance doesn't succeed in shutting her down. "You don't have to 'know anything'. You don't have to know anything, give anything or be anyone. God will take you right now, he'll take you at your lowest, and he'll give you the happiness and light you deserve. He will give you the life you deserve." Jolene reaches for his hand and squeezes it. "We're going to start small. We're going to pray when the food gets here. I'm going to pray, not just to thank him for what he's given us already, but for you, and you'll be here right along with me."

Tweek remembers how she said, _I would never let my son talk like that._ And the way she presents this stuff to him, so kindly, it would make him the asshole if he said 'no' in the face of a nice gesture. Wouldn't it? And so he doesn't argue, and when the food comes Jolene takes both of Tweek's hands in hers, and he closes his eyes. The uncomfortable sensation of being watched falls upon him, which keeps him obedient; they will not open a second too soon, no matter what. Jolene could be waiting to entrap him, or the waitress might notice and rat on him for being so impolite and ungrateful, or maybe even God Himself will see what a bastard he is.

"Heavenly Father, thank you for this meal that's presented to us. Thank you for bringing us safely to this place and providing us with a place of rest so that we are ready for the great journey ahead of us tomorrow. Thank you for bringing Tweek back into our lives, and for granting him the opportunities up ahead to grow and become the best young man he can be. Father, Tweek has suffered a terrible loss and a heavy amount of pain, please bring him into your capable hands. Let your light wash over him and cleanse him of these burdens, so he might flourish under your guidance. Amen."

"There," she says when Tweek knows it's safe to open his eyes. "That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

When they're done, she doesn't stall them any longer: before they drive to the nearby hotel Jolene allows Tweek to retrieve his backpack from the trunk, and his phone is waiting for him in the front pocket. Relief floods him, easing some of the stiffness in his shoulders.

The screen is covered in notifications. Several text messages and a few Snapchats, mostly from Craig, one from Craig's mother. Tweek smiles, a little, and his eyes burn again. Part of him was afraid to pick it up and find nothing at all, a silence to remind him how glad they are to be rid of him, how glad they are to be free of this burden he's inevitably become.

Tweek digs through his messages while he's in the lobby, an elbow leaned up against the counter while Jolene checks into their room.

 **Craig:** _i miss you already  
_**Craig:** _text me your new address ok?  
_**Craig:** _Babe?  
_**Craig:** _Fuck, this isn't like me at all. Just send something when you can I guess. I'm not worried though.  
_**Craig:** _ok i lied yes i am  
_**Craig:** _I hope that bitch didn't take your phone away._  

There's one more from him, and it makes Tweek tense up again: it's long enough to take up the full screen, which is a rare occurrence for Craig. It could be something terrible. Letting him go. Unleashing some kind of hidden anger blossomed over the years.

"Tweek?"

Tweek glances up and notices his aunt is halfway toward the elevator, staring at him like he's grown a second head. "Let's go, hon."

"Sorry! Coming!"

He presses the tip of his shoe against the floor once they're in the lift, jiggling his foot the entire way. The way the elevator swoops up always makes his stomach lurch, but right now, he's so wired he doesn't even feel it. His chest is ready to burst, but for the first time since the beginning of the end, this is a pain he'll welcome in.

All that matters to him in the outside world is the fact that the hotel room has two beds, and those beds look clean. Tweek throws himself across one of them and his aunt chuckles from somewhere across the room. "Someone's tired, huh?"

"Yeah." Tweek remains glued to his phone.

 **Craig:** _I'm pretty terrible at this. I hope you get these. I'm trying to be strong but we're all pretty fucked up over here. Even Dad's pissed. I can't believe someone like that exists, who would just snatch you away even knowing that everything you know and love is right here. Anyway, we're all pissed off and sad but we're not giving up on you. We're not going to stop fighting to bring you back. We're having an emergency meeting with Kyle's dad tomorrow. I bet everyone at school will flip their shit too and want to help. Basically we all love you, but I love you the most. It's going to be ok honey._

The vindictive part of him, the part too afraid to show through, would love to shove that screen into his dear Aunt Jolene's face and show her. _This is him, right here. This is the demon who's wrecking my life._ But he doesn't, and Tweek can't bring himself to catch up on the rest of the texts before shooting Craig his much-deserved answer. His fingers nearly drop the phone in his excitement, and he cradles it in his hands, cupping them around the screen.

 **Tweek:** _im ok!!!_  

He doesn't have a chance to find where he left off before the phone buzzes once, twice.

 **Craig:** _Hi babe  
_**Craig:** _Still on the road?_  

The snaps are a few random funny pictures of Muffin, Streusel and Toast with various doodles and filters all over them, and a video of them warbling and "popcorning" around. Craig's clearly trying to stay silent while he holds the phone, but a little snort in the back of his throat comes through. The back of Tweek's neck goes uncomfortably warm and he immediately brings down the volume before going for broke and setting the entire thing on silent, too. He's only vaguely aware of Jolene shuffling around in the background. The zip of a suitcase. The swish of clothing. "I'm going to shower. Do you need to use the bathroom?" A quick shake of his head. Was that a disapproving sigh on her way in? The pit of his stomach clenches. Does it matter?

As soon as he hears the sputter-hiss of the water, Tweek hits the video-call button and scrambles over to the chairs on the other side of the room. Craig's face flashes onto the screen, tinged a blue-white from the computer screen before him, and when Tweek turns up the volume just a couple of notches he can hear Craig crunching on something.

" _Tweek,_ " he grunts through his mouthful, and a couple of stray orange crumbs drop down his chin. He could be completely covered in Cheeto dust and Tweek would still experience the same flutter in his chest, the same tightening of his throat. There aren't any tears left in him to cry. He's grateful for that. If he fell apart any more tonight there'd be nothing left of him to put back together. " _Hey,_ " Craig says once he's swallowed and wiped off his mouth on the back of his hand. " _Where the fuck are you?_ "

"A hotel!"

" _Where's—_ "

"She's in the shower!"

" _Oh. Well, I fucking miss you._ "

"Me too! I left my phone in the trunk and, and we were on the freeway, so I couldn't answer! But she bought me an iPad! Check it out!"

" _Tweek._ "

Tweek, halfway through a mad scramble for his backpack, halts in the middle of the room. "What?"

" _Slow down, okay?_ "

"I don't have a lot of time!"

" _I know._ " Craig pauses, and Tweek snatches the strap of his bookbag with his free hand. " _I'm just glad you're alright._ "

"Of course I'm alright!"

" _Well, I mean, you're talking now._ "

"Oh! Yeah..." Tweek chews on his lip and resists the urge to trace his fingers over Craig's face and imagine, stupidly, he's right there. When they were separated on trips, vacations, he always knew they'd be back with each other. He squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds. No, he's being ridiculous. It _is_ just a trip; he's just taking a short trip, and they'll be back together soon. His aunt hasn't taken his phone away, and now Craig's here with him in the closest way he could possibly be, and they're working on it, he'll be back home in no time at all.

A blur of colour paints the screen and shifts, and Craig's face is a little more clear, a little less candid. Tweek can tell by the dark brown wood behind Craig's head that he's relocated to his bed, now holding the camera at a more flattering angle in front of his face. God, Tweek can remember every detail of that room like a photograph. " _I wish I had my license,_ " Craig says. " _I'd drive right down there and get you. I don't even fucking care if we get in trouble._ "

Even though the water's still running, Tweek glances toward the bathroom door when Craig swears. "Me too! Let's just run away together, okay? We'll take the boys with us!"

" _We won't need to. This is gonna be over soon._ " A little crease knits Craig's brow, like he wants to convey something else, something more serious.

Tweek's had about enough of serious.

"I thought about it, you know!" The hills find their way back, how picturesque everything became the further he went away. Perhaps one day he really will take Craig out there. It would be the two of them, no nosy aunts or overbearing Dads to dog their steps. "When, when we drove, and— you should've seen it, Craig, it was beautiful. It was so beautiful! Like a movie or something, I wanna take you there!"

" _Sure._ " Craig cracks a smile but his expression doesn't smooth out.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

" _Like what?_ "

"Like you're, I-I dunno. About to cry or something!"

" _No I'm not._ " Craig scrunches his face up in the meanest scowl he can muster, and Tweek laughs. " _Hey, wanna say hi to Mom real quick?_ "

"No!" He didn't mean to shout. Tweek hunches up his shoulders and casts one more look behind him. There's nothing there, no one. "Don't. Don't get your mom, get the kids."

Craig grunts a little and swings sideways off the bed, and more of the bedroom whizzes over the screen like Tweek's life flashing before his eyes. " _The kids,_ " he echoes. " _Yeah, the kids. Here they are, look._ " He fed them not too long ago: bits of nibbled vegetable lie strewn about the cage. The familiar little warbles and squeaks of Craig's guinea pigs—and Tweek's, by proxy—float from the speaker.

"They're so cute." Tweek smiles through the tight coil in his chest. "Put Muffin on the bed!" As soon as he demands it, and Craig plops down the fat, mottled guinea pig on his sheets, the water patters to a halt followed by the metallic scrape of the curtain and Tweek remembers he's not alone. "Shit!" he hisses. "She's out of the shower, I gotta go, I don't want her to hear us!"

" _Okay._ "

The screen goes dark. Tweek fires off a message: _we can still text_ and Craig answers back just as quick, _ok._

And then, _I'm worried about you._

 **Tweek:** _im just happy to see you whats wrong with that?_

 **Craig:** _nothing  
_**Craig:** _nevermind_

 **Tweek:** _ilu prick_

 **Craig:** _ilu2 assface._  

They text back and forth and trade Snaps for a while (well, mostly on Craig's end, there's nothing here to tell)—until Jolene tells him, "okay, lights out." When they're both in their beds and he squints into the glow of the screen she tells him firmly but kindly, "phone away, Tweek."

"I... I can't sleep."

"Try, at least."

He doesn't want to try, but he doesn't have a choice. She'll catch the glow of his phone beneath the covers, and if he takes it to the bathroom with him, she'll notice. So he sets the phone down on the little lacquered table between their beds, and curls up, tries to think of Craig and the pigs and other soothing things, tosses and turns, an hour rolls past.

Jolene is asleep, raspy rhythmic breaths that sound like they dry out her throat. Tweek reaches for his phone and taps the screen. Even with the ringer and vibration silenced, the screen dimmed all the way down is like a searchlight. Jolene stirs in her bed and Tweek sets the phone aside again, coils himself up as tight as he can and presses his fingers into his hair. Did they pack another change of clothes for him? He can't remember now, but he's afraid to reach for his backpack. He should have showered when he had the chance, even if it meant putting his hoodie with the chewed-up damp cuffs and the same pair of underwear back on. Did he clean himself up at Craig's? Yes, he must have, because Craig gave him his pajamas to wear. He doesn't have anything of his own anymore.

It's so hot in the room he can feel the sweat in his pits. At some point he loses his sweatshirt, and kicks off the comforter, kicks off everything but the single sheet he tangles around his body. And it's midnight. He tries counting sheep. Who the fuck ever came up with that trick, anyway? It never works. Nor does reciting the alphabet backwards in his head. 1 o'clock. His knees hurt and he tries another technique: tensing every muscle, and subsequently releasing, one by one, from his toes all the way up and then back down again. 2 o'clock. He's getting a slight headache now and his eyes burn whenever he tries to close them. His hair and face feel disgustingly greasy. 2:43. Tweek looks over toward his aunt who's turned her back to him, and heaves up all the courage he can muster in grabbing his phone and padding to the bathroom on socked feet.

You can't trust hotel floors.

 **Tweek:** _i cant sleep_

A minute rolls by. Then two. Maybe Craig did the wise thing and set his phone to silent. He does that sometimes and tries to pretend it was an accident. To pass the time (and make his presence here less incriminating), Tweek washes his face in the sink. The phone lights up beside him while he's got fake-fancy hotel soap plastered all over his skin.

 **Craig:** _me either  
_**Craig:** _I'm skipping tomorrow anyway._

 **Tweek:**   _so wyd then_

 **Craig:** _fortnite  
_**Craig:** _I had my headphones on_

 **Tweek:** _im scared_  

From beyond the door, Tweek hears the rustle of sheets. He splashes water on his face rapid-fire and flushes the toilet, hoping to pass himself off with a legitimate need to be there in the first place. He stuffs the phone into his pants and opens the door. The weight of Jolene's shadow is immediate, and though she is only a few inches taller than Tweek her presence looms over him.

"Hon, you don't have any pajamas?" Tweek shakes his head and prays—isn't that funny—his phone doesn't drop out the bottom of his pants leg. "We're gonna fix that tomorrow." Jolene eases past him. It's impossible to tell if she's none the wiser.

 

* * *

 

For the second time since he's left home, Tweek can't recall falling asleep. But he's awakened by fingers softly combing through his hair and a woman's voice: "C'mon, honey, we need to get going." Her voice holds a familiar note of patience that masks a blooming agitation, like she's been trying for some time now to rouse him. The clock beside him reads 8:18 and a ray of light peeks in between the curtains. This isn't his bed, he's not in any place he recognizes or remembers, and when he sits up he realizes he's not at home nor at Craig's. He's in a hotel room with a strange lady and every moment takes him further and further away.

He's left with the dull feeling some wretched nightmare took place here and he has to leave, he has to leave now before that horror clouds around him too. Tweek doesn't even look at his phone until they're in the car and he's fumbled his seatbelt into place with quivering hands. He sinks back against the cushion to read the messages on his screen.

 **Tweek:** _im scared_

 **Craig:** _I know, talk to me._

 **Tweek:** _they want to change me and i dont know how to believe in god_

 **Craig:** _Who wants to change you?  
_ **Craig:**   _There's no wrong way to believe in God, fuck that homophobic cunt._

Something slithers down his throat. Tweek doesn't remember this part, not at all. Texting Craig when he's too sleepy to remember is nothing new, but something about those words leaves his stomach wanting to somersault into his palate.

When was it? When he tries to remember, all he can think about is the mug, undisturbed on its side. There’s a crack on the rim. It’s his favourite and it’s still there, mud splashed on the tile and the wall dusted with a fine red mist. And there are his father's eyes. They watched over him when he slept last night, making sure he couldn't escape into dreams, and they're watching him now: where he walks, who he's with, what he does. They are all things he's not supposed to have, and when he looks up, Dad's eyes are right there, in the rearview mirror.

Where they go, there’s no coming back.

"Aunt Jolene!" The car lurches forward and he tries again: "Aunt Jolene!"

"What is it, hon?"

Her acknowledgement comes too late: Tweek throws himself forward, death grip on the seat in front of him, and just like that, all of yesterday's soup winds up on the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took longer than I wanted it to. Thanks everyone for the lovely feedback thus far! 
> 
> Many thanks to Roxy ([Guineapigqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineapigqueen)) for beta-reading as well!

Craig wasn't lying when he said he planned to skip school. That doesn't stop the rumor of Tweek's departure from spreading like wildfire among his classmates anyway. Tricia may only be in fifth grade, but so is _Kenny's_ sister. Kenny texts him right after third period ( _no, second,_ Tweek realizes, they're a whole time zone apart now) and it goes on and on from there and his phone blows up with messages intermittently throughout the day.

In between making a pit stop to mop up the vomit at Tweek's feet ("It's all right, hon, just a little car sick") and stopping a few hours later for lunch and to top off the gas tank (he's had his fill of soup, but the smell of food still makes him nauseous, so he fills up on _Olive Garden_ breadsticks instead)—but _not_ before passing off at a nearby shopping center to buy him some new shoes, since they were ruined, and isn't this shirt lovely, it matches your eyes, but let's save it for when we're home _just in case,_ and new underwear, socks, the way she passes by an Apple Store and muses he needs to be put on her family plan too, but that will happen once they get home, and it isn't lost on him at _all_ he will probably get his phone replaced too—

In between, Jolene provides him with bits of information. Her kids—Tweek's cousins—are Georgia and Judson. ( _Stupid names,_ he thinks.) They're 14 and 18, respectively. Georgia is a freshman like him. Judson will graduate this year. There's also his uncle Roy, and Scout the dog. He'll be going to private school, but he gets a week to become acclimated first. They're going shopping first thing tomorrow, she also tells him. The thought leaves a dull ache in Tweek's chest, though he can't connect it to any discernible reason why. He sifts through his phone as the messages come in.

 

 **Laura:** Just remember that I'm only a phone call or a text away. Even if it's in the middle of the night, I'll always pick up. You're family and we love you.

 

 **Kenny:** dude wtf

 **Kenny:** did they srsly put u in fuckin foster care thats fucked up

 **Kenny:** did u get the fucktarded headshot guy

 **Tweek:** no it was my aunt.

 

 **Bebe:** OMFG THIS IS BULLSHIT!!!!

 **Bebe:** WTF!!!! U CANT LEAVE ME UR MY SOULMATE!!!

 **Bebe:** cOmE bAcK tO mE mY lOvE

 

 **Craig:** nobody thought you were the murderer, that's dumb

 

 **Kyle:** Holy shit dude.

 **Kyle:** My dad's taking on your case. We'll get to the bottom of this.

 

 **Jimmy:** What's the best part about having sex with Jesus?

 **Jimmy:** The second coming!

 

 **Clyde:** bro gime new address

 **Clyde:** secret mission time

 

 **Unknown Number:** So you really did murder ur parents? LOL

 **Unknown Number:** god I hate you Tweek

 **Unknown Number:** Don't drop the soap ;)

 

 **Wendy:** Oh my god are you ok???? I'm here if you need someone to talk to!!!

 

 **Token:** Hey I just heard from Cartman that you were in jail? So obviously I asked Craig what happened instead. This really sucks man. It won't be the same around here without you.

 

He can only bring himself to respond to Kenny before the tide of well wishes and occasional remarks of anger overwhelm him. The phone is turned off for a while. Tweek tries to compensate for the hours stretching before him by lying down across the seats and burying his face in his hoodie again, breathing in the scents still lingering in the fabric. If he tries hard enough, perhaps he’ll be able to trick himself into catching something of Craig's skin, too; or the deodorant he wears, or even that slippery-dry smell his hair gets when he's gone a few days without washing it. There's flecks of dried puke on the bottom somewhere. In spite of this, Tweek decides he's never going to wash it.

Lying down like this results in getting jostled and bounced against the seat, and it makes Tweek's stomach lurch all over again, so he sits up. Normally he isn't good at sleeping in cars but this trip is a lot of firsts, it seems, and he nods off with his head against the window. He spends the remainder of the drive like this, slipping in and out of—well, it can't be called sleep. Whenever it gets too dark behind his eyes, he blinks them open again, then readjusts, and the cycle repeats itself. His eyes hurt, but that's nothing new. The sky passes through a few different phases throughout the day, blue and foggy grey, rain pitter-patters across the windows and it feels right, but the golden rays start shooting through the clouds and the sun emerges. It hurts his eyes (why didn't he get her to buy him sunglasses when he had the chance?) and he has to close them again.

The car slows and it's the difference in momentum _and_ texture beneath him that stirs Tweek into sitting up straight. It makes him wince. His neck aches from the strange contortions of himself on the car seat and against the door, and it feels like his spine's never going to align properly with the rest of him again. "Are we there?" He knows it's a stupid question, because where else would they be? Jolene made no mention of stopping at anyone else's home, and when she pulls forward Tweek can see they're pulling into the driveway of a large brick house. A classic assortment of reds and browns, with long rectangular windows paneled in white and blue. Well-trimmed green shrubs and pastel pink flowers outline the perimeter, with little skinny white trees in the front yard.

"This is it," Jolene replies cheerfully. "Your new home."

Of course she'd say something stupidly cliche like that.

Tweek hauls his bookbag up over one shoulder as he exits the car and catches a lush, full view of what he's about to get himself into. The lawn looks like it was mowed that very morning, with an assortment of trees scattered around. Not just the slender front-garden trees with their manicured leaves, but thick ones, sturdy maples that tower over the house. The stone path at his feet may end at the concrete steps to the front door, but he can see the grass doesn't, stretching for yards on every side. He can spot the neighbour's driveway further down.

Just beyond the threshold of the foyer he can see the expanse of what must be the living room: a finely-polished wood floor and the edge of an intricate floral rug patterned in red, cream, blue and gold. The wall beside him is done up in gold and bronze wallpaper with elaborate patterns: at first, he thinks they must be flowers, too, but when he blinks he swears he can see beasts. Jolene lays down her keys with a clatter on a little glass shelf, right next to a set of golden candleholders. Tweek wonders if they've ever been lit. A thickly-framed antique mirror sits right above it, and right next to it—yes, of course, a painting of Jesus Christ.

"So," Jolene says brightly, "I'll give you a tour of the house. This is the family room…" Dumbly, Tweek follows her in.

He is no stranger to the concept of being "well off". He's been to Token's mansion a countless number of times over the years. His parents made enough for them to be "content," content in ways many of his classmates did not have. At least, that was the impression he grew up with. But his old house couldn't compare to this, and Tweek can't name the feeling blooming inside him while Jolene shows him through the house. It's like having his organs slowly consumed by vines. There isn't just the family room out front, but there's also the living room, _and_ the sun room. There's the wide open kitchen with the island, and the chairs at the island, and the table and chairs at the far end—but there had also been a dining area to the right of the foyer, and it could be called a room but there were no walls, a vast expanse of perfect polished floor. You'd think this would make it easier to breathe, but it makes him feel smaller. The vaulted ceilings make him feel smaller. The way this house is filled with so many clean, ornate, expensive things makes him feel smaller. Every single thing he's laid his eyes on, and will lay his eyes on, are completely new, never-before-seen by the likes of him.

And it makes him feel smaller.

The walls upstairs are a neutral stone colour, decorated with various portraits and family photos and paintings of vases and flowers. Tweek catches sight of one portrait in particular. Four people are standing at what looks to be a park, all smiling. He recognizes Jolene right away, standing beside a portly man with glasses and thinning brown hair. It's almost like someone took Groucho Marx's face and stuck it on Craig's father's body. In front of them, a freckled dark-haired girl and a rather handsome guy with perfect hair.

He doesn't ask about them.

"This used to be our guest suite," Jolene tells him once they've reached the room at the end of the hall, "so you'll even have your own bathroom. Georgia sure was fit to be tied when she found out." She nudges him by the shoulder and grins. "I'm kidding."

The room, with its beige walls, perfectly-made bed and lacquered desk, feels more like a hotel room than a bedroom. The floor looks like it's been freshly-vacuumed. After Jolene leaves him to his own devices Tweek pulls off his shoes and socks and squirms his toes into the cream-coloured carpet. The smell is different: citrusy, woodsy. But maybe his nose was trained to spot scents like these. _Our Sunrise Blend, crisp and bright with notes of citrus. Our full-bodied, earthy Sumatran._

Tweek's throat clamps shut. The first place he goes isn't the attached bathroom, but the window, though from where he stands he can see it through the open door: it's one of those split bathrooms with the sink in its own area and the shower beyond a second doorway. The doorframe is white, the sink is white, the countertop—thankfully, _not_ white, but nearly so, some kind of pastel granite. He can't quite see the wallpaper, but it appears to be some kind of pale shade with a twisting copper pattern over its surface.

The window overlooks the backyard. Tweek locks eyes with the naked baby angel on the birdbath. For a split second he wonders if it's exposed in all its celestial splendor, or if they covered it with a leaf. From where he stands, it's difficult to tell. There's a brown, wolfish-looking dog running around in the grass. Tweek doesn't expect him to look up, but he taps on the glass with his fingertips anyway, and much to his surprise the dog stops dead in his tracks and perks up his ears. It actually has the potential to make him smile, but just as quick Tweek realizes there could be someone outside, too—an actual _person_ —and he doesn't want them to look, to _see_ him, a stranger behind the curtains (even though it's clear they're expecting him, and that makes it all the worse)—so he dips back, away from any possibility of being discovered.

 _I don't live here,_ is what runs through his head when he sits on the bed. _I don't live here._ He remembers his phone, and when he turns it on, more notifications flood the screen. From the look of it, they're mostly from the group chat. It must be abuzz with him, he can see his name a few times, but Tweek's vision blurs after that and he swipes them all off the screen. He doesn't want to read what they've discussed while he wasn't there. He would always have returned to be a fly on the wall anyway, so what were they possibly thinking? Maybe he should shower. Maybe he should change. Maybe he should just—lie down—

He does none of these things. Jesus, the walls here are so bare. The desk is bare, except for some stupid paperweight on the end with a red flower inside, and a brass lamp with a white shade. It really does look fake. His desk back home was never so clean, never organized. The top drawer on the side he couldn't manage to shut all the way, it was stuffed so full of papers. And his pencils, his model robots and mechas, sketchpads and notebooks and mail—there was only one rectangle of space left, and that was only if he'd recently shoved everything aside to make room for his laptop.

As if awakening from some horrid nightmare, a swift and sudden terror cuts through him: _he forgot to pack his things._

The old cups, the empty cookie and chip bags, the empty cans, the dirty socks and underwear—those, he could do without. But the things he built, the things he's created, everything had some kind of stupid story behind it, whether it be ill-gotten or gifted, and the pictures, the drawings, the posters on the wall, all of it. None of it was here. He'd brought—what, a backpack with only the basics of technology? _We'll go shopping first thing tomorrow._ What did she expect of him? Were they going to build a whole new _him,_ not from scratch but manufactured in whatever image she wanted God to design?

Once it's back in his hands, Tweek's phone buzzes and buzzes but nothing materializes on the screen. Eventually, it fades into nothing.

He tries again.

Still nothing.

This must be it. Now that he's gone, safely out of sight, safely out of reach. Tweek buries his face in the pillows with the intent to scream, but all that comes out is a pathetic choked sob. His hands bunch into the sheets.

The mattress vibrates under his knees.

 _"I was taking a shit,"_ is Craig's greeting.

"Craig! My things!"

 _"What?"_  Craig reaches off-screen and there's the rustle-crunch of plastic; he comes up with a _Chips Ahoy!_ and shoves the whole thing into his mouth. Tweek's stomach gives an unpleasant gurgle.

"My _stuff!_ All of it! I forgot to pack!"

It's only for a few seconds, but Craig abruptly stops chewing. Something like pain flashes over his face, but then he finishes his bite. _"You didn't forget,"_ he finally says.

Tweek presses a hand against his chest, tries to dull the persisting ache. It's like heartburn but worse. "I have nothing here," he says. "Nothing!"

 _"Well,"_ Craig replies, _"you have me. I'm not going anywhere."_

It's becoming easier to breathe. "This place is really big," says Tweek. "Really big! I feel like I could get lost in here, but not in the fun way, and there's ugly wallpaper, and— two living rooms. _Two!_ Who ever heard of two living rooms, it's insane! Don't you think that's insane, Craig?"

Craig's brow furrows. _"Can I like, see your room, I'm curious."_

Tweek slowly pans the camera around the room. The silence feels strange to him, so he speaks as he does so. "There's my bed," he says. "And the walls. And the desk, and the chair. The window. They, mm, they gave me my own bathroom at least!"

_"It's bigger than my room."_

"It's bigger than everything," Tweek replies. It doesn't hit him until afterwards that it's kind of a nonsense thing to say. "It's— empty. Lifeless. I don't _live here,_ and— I don't live here. None of my things are here. Oh, Christ—"

_"Did you eat at all today?"_

"Yeah, I had breadsticks at _Olive Garden._ I puked all over myself in the car! It was awful!"

 _"That's weird,"_ Craig says. _"You haven't gotten car sick for years."_

"Yeah, I… I know! I just feel sick all the time now."

_"Well, that's probably normal. You were just—"_

"Stop!" He holds his hand up. "I don't wanna talk about it." Craig looks mildly disturbed by the request, but he doesn't press any further. Yesterday, Tweek suddenly remembers, Craig had mentioned something about an emergency meeting with Kyle Broflovski's dad that would have taken place today. The two of them never got along very well, Craig and Kyle, but some things surpass bitterness. "Did you meet with Kyle's dad yet?"

 _"They went without me."_ Craig doesn't look too happy to be relaying this information, either. _"And they won't tell me shit."_

"Why?"

_"It's too delicate, or whatever."_

"Fuck that!" Tweek straightens himself up. "I'll find out myself if they won't say anything!" Craig doesn't look at all pleased by this sentiment either.

_"That's probably not a good idea."_

"I don't care—" He's cut off when he hears a voice call out, and it makes him flinch, but with the way Craig's head turns in the direction of his door, off-screen, Tweek realizes it came from his side.

 _"Fuck,"_ Craig says. _"It's dinner time, I gotta go."_

"Okay." Desperation seizes him, as he recalls the empty silence before making the decision to call Craig. Craig seems to notice this, because he hesitates, pauses halfway up on his knees where he made to get up.

 _"I'm gonna ask them again."_ He stares right into the phone's camera, and casually wipes the back of a hand across his nose. _"But don't try to figure it out yourself."_

"Fine."

 _"I guess,"_ and he lowers his voice a notch, _"well, there's always school tomorrow. Then I might find some shit out."_

"Call me after you eat," Tweek begs him.

 _"Yeah, I will—_ **_fuck off!_** _"_ His head whips toward the door again, which means Tricia probably nagged him. He would never talk to his parents like that, unless he's _really_ upset. _"Okay, I really gotta go,"_ he says. _"Bye, dickhead."_

"Bye, assface."

A flicker of a smile, and the call ends.

Tweek finally gets up and showers. A raw, primal part of him wants to scream. Not cry, not anymore—maybe, if he's lucky, he's managed to dry his eyes up and he'll never have to deal with crying again. Instead, it's a rage that rises up in him from places unknown, like the steam rising from the warm water and billowing out into the other room. But the anger won't burst from him. He rakes his fingers through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut and takes slow, deep breaths through his mouth. When he manages to open them again he stares blankly at his feet, at his weird toes and stubby toenails and the water running between them and vanishing down the drain. It makes him think about horror movies where blood runs like a river and gurgles down the pipes, but he can't recall anything more specific. The soap smells like lavender and vanilla. There must have been girls who stayed here before him. Or someone who wrapped themselves in fervent denial.

It feels like he's been in there for an hour, but when Tweek makes his retreat with a fluffy, pale blue towel around his waist, the clock on his phone tells him it's only been thirty-five minutes. A faint commotion drifts from downstairs: the mingling of voices, the occasional laughter, the click of claws on the floor and jingling tags, and absolutely none of these are things Tweek is used to hearing. The voices might as well be speaking in a foreign language.

 

 

* * *

 

"Our first order of business," Jolene tells him once they're in the car and en route to the mall, "is to do something about that hair."

For a moment, Tweek is speechless. He quickly shakes his head, hard enough his hair whips at his cheeks. "We don't need to!" This brings a chuckle out of his aunt.

He refused dinner last night. There was no way he could eat like this, with his stomach in knots. Craig managed to call, which made him sink a little, the warmth returning. He doesn't recall hanging up, only waking up to find his phone back on the lock screen. He must have fallen asleep.

Judson comes along with them, since Jolene admits she's out of touch when it comes to what boys like to wear. _And I'm not?_ is Tweek's first thought. But he's not an idiot; he knows the real reason. She's afraid he'll buy clothing too loud or too fabulous, displaying his gayness for all the world to see like a peacock's feathers, and his straight male cousin is here to show him the way. It's funny, because the clothing he wore when she retrieved him was perfectly normal.

Besides, it's kind of like he's getting a makeover, and those are pretty gay—aren't they?

Judson also seems pretty gay. He's the perfect golden boy. _Too_ perfect. Always smiling. Always handsome. He probably has a perfect blonde girlfriend who wears tiny gold cross necklaces and never lets anything above the knee show. They've probably exchanged Promise Rings and sit chastely holding hands on the couch, a simple kiss goodbye on the lips but without any tongue. He's already patted Tweek a couple times on the back, his hand big and warm. It's almost enough to make Tweek sweat, but then he realizes it's not because of his touch at all, but because of the way his mind wandered when he thought of the Promise Rings.

His stomach seizes. It's such a _straight_ thing to do. Do gay people make promises like that to each other, to God? They've never discussed it, never had The Talk—

( _Oh, you know how teenage boys are._ )

—and Kenny told him once, _"I guess that's the gay equivalent of second base,"_ but even he looked apprehensive. Tweek couldn't figure out why, but Craig was pretty pissed off, so it probably wasn't a nice thing to say.

It's not until they're at the barber shop and the scissors are set to his hair when it truly sinks in what is about to happen. "Now don't you worry," Jolene says. The dismay must have been reflected on his face, and she must have misinterpreted something, because she reassures him, "he'll do a great job, he's exceptional."

Tweek's hair has gotten long since his last haircut nearly two years ago, touching down between his shoulders, deceptively unkempt but really, it's because he's been cursed with natural curls that often tangle themselves into an unruly mess. Bebe, someone who knows this curse well, always loves fixing up his hair. He thinks of her texts from yesterday and his chest stings: it's a different sensation from when he thinks about Craig, but not any less painful.

Tweek squeezes his eyes shut and crinkles his nose against the little snips of the scissors on his wet hair, the little tufts falling all around him making his face itch. The barber asks him things to make conversation, but before Tweek can answer to any of them, Jolene supplies the answer for him. He's her nephew. He's from a small town. He isn't used to the city.

"Look at you," Jolene gushes when they're finished. "Gosh, you're so _handsome._ " And she hugs him. Tweek can't help but let a little squeak of dismay fall when he lifts a hand to touch his hair. It's been parted on one side—somehow, the barber won the battle against his obnoxious cowlicks—and it's shorter than he can ever remember it, cut to the tops of his ears and shorn into a fade on the sides and back, sticky with product. It's going to look ridiculous the first time he washes his hair.

He can't think of what to say.

"It's really a lovely cut," Jolene assures the barber. "You did a wonderful job. You know how boys are at this age."

"I sure do, Mrs. Crawford." The old barber smiles.

" _No,_ " Tweek whispers, in horror, when they next stop in front of a _Hollister Co._ store.

"Don't worry about the cost, dude," his cousin says, and roughly pats him on the shoulder.

"Can't we go to a consignment shop or something?"

"Oh, honey," Jolene chuckles. "Why would you want to wear clothing someone else has already worn?"

" _Uggh._ "

"Come on, _dude,_ " Jolene says with a pat to his shoulder, too, and winks at her son.

"What about this?" Tweek asks when they're inside,indicating a black t-shirt with some kind of flower design on the front. Jolene laughs.

"Oh, you're funny," she says, and ushers him over to the cleaner, plainer, _straighter_ shirts. "Look at these," she says at one point when they're by the jeans. "There's that torn up look you boys like, but it's very tasteful and clean."

"Yeah." Tweek fights the urge to roll his eyes. "That's why we hate those."

"Well," Jolene says, pulling a couple of them off the rack, "I think they look very cool. Judson even gets away with owning a pair of these."

They leave the mall with an entire new wardrobe, a brand new MacBook, and a plethora of school supplies. Jolene has spared no expense in dressing up her little charity project. Tweek absolutely hates every piece of clothing passed through his hands.

Honestly, some of them look gayer than what he normally wears.

When they return to the homestead, there's a pair of girls sitting in the living room. Their heads whirl around simultaneously and Tweek nearly laughs at the irony: one of them matches almost picture-perfect the image he held in his mind of the blonde counterpart to his perfect _straight_ cousin. The other girl is dark-haired and her face and neck are covered in freckles. Both of them wear tiny gold chains, and both of them murmur simultaneous greetings, like they're caught somewhere in the place between obedience and distaste. Tweek tries to smile, but their eyes are on him, appraising like he's some stray animal brought back from the shelter. Pitying. _Judging._

"This is Georgia, and her friend—"

"Bethany." It's the blonde. "Hi." Georgia nudges her, presumably because of the interruption. Tweek notices Bethany is wearing one of those dumb B.F.F. necklaces with half a heart. He concludes Georgia must be wearing the other half, but when she shifts, he can see she's the one wearing a tiny cross.

"Georgia, Bethany, this is Tweek."

"Hello," Tweek forces himself to say, because it's the courteous thing to do.

"He'll be starting school with you next week." Her hand settles on Tweek's back when she says this, as if it's somehow new information. He immediately stiffens, and she drops it away. "Okay. Let's take this stuff to your room."

They say nothing else, only offer up a pair of polite smiles. It's pretty clear they hate his guts already.

As Jolene leads him upstairs, her voice quietens. "They're just not used to it, you know? This is very new to them."

 

 

* * *

 

Dinner is quiet and solemn, especially after Tweek overhears Jolene informing Georgia that her guest needs to go home, and Georgia's sighing protests. After being the subject of prayers _again,_ he ends up picking at his chicken and moving the beans and mash around, feeling like an ugly centerpiece. Everyone is pleasant around him, not out of warmth but in that polite, _this is so weird but I'm a good Christian_ manner.

When Craig calls him later that night with a FaceTime request, Tweek’s immediate reaction is to scowl and hit the reject button. But guilt overtakes him, as does the desire to talk to his boyfriend, so he rings him back: an actual phone call.

 _"Babe?"_ Craig's voice is tinged with concern.

"I don't wanna show you my face tonight," Tweek whimpers, "or ever again."

 _"Uh-oh._ _What happened?"_

"They… they cut it all off! They cut it off, man! It's all _gone!_ "

 _"What,"_ is Craig's response. _"What's all gone?"_

"My _hair,_ " Tweek squeaks out. "My hair!"

_"Oh, fuck."_

"Yeah," he grumbles. "It looks _really_ bad. I look like I'm gonna, I dunno, lead a Bible studies club or something! It looks so _stupid!_ "

_"Just show me, babe."_

It takes several more minutes of convincing, but Tweek finally acquiesces. "Fine." He sighs. "But, but you have to promise not to laugh."

_"Okay."_

They switch off to video and the first thing Craig does is snort, loudly, a hand pressed to his mouth. Fucking asshole. " _Craig!_ " Tweek snarls at him.

_"Uh, wow. That looks really weird."_

"Thanks a fucking lot!" Tweek buries his face in his hands, but he doesn't shut off the video.

_"Well, it's not too bad."_

"You're just saying that, aren't you?"

_"Yeah."_

"I hate it here," Tweek laments into his hands. "I _hate_ it here! And _look!_ Look at this shit!" He pans the view down over his green polo and those stupid, fake-ripped jeans with an angry little snort. "Can you fucking believe this?!"

 _"Wow,"_ says Craig. _"At least the shirt kinda looks good."_ It's barely heard over the round of squeals assaulting Tweek's ears.

"I hear wheeking."

 _"Yeah,"_ says Craig. _"Streusel's in my lap."_ He swings his phone down to indicate the guinea pig. He's certainly in Craig's lap, all right. Tweek flushes and, immediately, nausea churns in his belly. But it's the sad kind, not the sick kind.

"Hi, Streusel!"

Craig brings the screen back up. _"Yep, done randomly shoving my crotch in your face."_

"Gross." A wavering laugh accompanies the word. "Hey Craig." Tweek's voice drops to a whisper. "Can you take off your shirt, though?"

 _"What,"_ is Craig's answer. _"I didn't hear a single thing you said."_

"I said," Tweek hisses through grit teeth, "can you take off your shirt?"

 _"Uh…"_ Craig laughs nervously. _"Why…"_

"Nevermind. I just miss, you know."

_"Oh."_

That's all he has to say. Just, _oh._

Jesus, Tweek’s gotten enough awkward in this home already. He doesn’t need it from Craig, too. He has half a mind to just hang up on him, but then Craig breaks the silence between them.

_"Anyway, you look really gay."_

The stiffening in Tweek's shoulders dissipates. "I _know!_ " he says after a sharp bout of laughter. "They actually, they—at the store, they had—"

Someone knocks at his door. Tweek's phone falls from his fingers as they suddenly become wooden, heavy, and he reflexively shoves it under his pillow. The door opens a few seconds later and Jolene steps inside.

"It's almost 11, dear. Why is your light still on?"

"I just, I can't sleep," Tweek says. Craig must still be able to hear them, he has to understand.

"Are you on the phone?"

"No?"

"Hang up the phone, Tweek."

Tweek fumbles around under the pillow and finds the power button with his thumb. He presses in until it buzzes to sleep. He doesn't want to risk revealing Craig's face or voice, though it's clear she knows who he's talking to.

"It's off," he says, holding it up to indicate the blank screen.

Instead of acknowledging this, Jolene holds out her hand with a little smile.

Tweek digs through his brain, like he's desperately rifling through his desk for something important he's lost, anything, _anything_ for an excuse. "But I need it for—" The thoughts, half-formed to begin with, twist and tangle themselves around one another until they're snarled-up and useless. He can do nothing.

"Goodnight, Tweek." And she kisses him on the forehead.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is greatly appreciated!


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